“You shan’t go yet. After all, I’m your son, and you’ve got no right to disgrace yourself.”
“And what will you do, pray?”
Lady Vizard smiled now in a manner that suggested no great placidity of temper.
“I don’t know, but I shall find something. If you haven’t the honour to protect yourself, I must protect you.”
“You impudent boy, how dare you speak to me like that!” cried Lady Vizard, turning on him with flashing eyes. “And what d’you mean by coming here and preaching at me? You miserable prig! I suppose it runs in your family, for your father was a prig before you.”
Basil looked at her, anger taking the place of every other feeling; pity now had vanished, and he sought not to hide his indignation.
“Oh, what a fool I was to believe in you all these years! I would have staked my life that you were chaste and pure. And yet when I read those papers, although the jury doubted, I knew that it was true.”
“Of course it was true!” she cried defiantly. “Every word of it, but they couldn’t prove it.”
“And now I’m ashamed to think I’m your son.”
“You needn’t have anything to do with me, my good boy. You’ve got money of your own. D’you think I want a lubberly, ill-bred oaf hanging about my skirts?”